


The Malevolent Sea

by firesign10



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Danger, M/M, Mystery, Scenic Location, Supernatural Elements, Thriller, Wincest - Freeform, show-level violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 16:22:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16579967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firesign10/pseuds/firesign10
Summary: Agents “Townshend" and “Daltrey" drive to the Maine coast for a possible case. Is the lighthouse haunted, or is it something even more sinister? With three people dead already, they must work quickly to find the cause, but things get weird fast...





	The Malevolent Sea

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2018 SPN Eldritch Bang. It was a real treat to write this story! Thanks to the mods who came up with the idea for and ran this Bang! Thank you to Kelios for a great feedback read, and Theatergirl7299 for her fast beta and unwavering support and advice as I wrote this!
> 
> I was really happy to work with Merakieros for the second time! I love her moody pieces here that are so expressive, so a big hug and thanks to you, Andy!!! Be sure to hit her post [on LJ](https://merakieross.livejournal.com/13696.html) and leave love!

Sarah walked up the path of the bluff overlooking the ocean, watching her step so she wouldn't slip and tumble down to the pebbled beach over two hundred feet below. She felt happy and relaxed; she'd walked this path her whole life, every dip and hillock was familiar to her. She liked to come here and just think, taking deep breathes of the rich salt air while the waves crashed below in all their foamy beauty. As the local schoolteacher, she was an important part of the town's social structure. Her life was busy and full, and while she enjoyed that, liked being caught up in the town's life, once in a while she just needed to take a breather. And so here she was, enjoying the sun and the water, the momentary solitude of her favorite spot on earth.

It was rare to see anyone else up here, most people didn't care to climb to the topmost point, so when she noticed the figure ahead of her on the path, she was surprised. She knew everyone in town, and the three other towns nearby as well, but as the figure stood with its back to Sarah, sun lancing into her eyes, she couldn't make out who it was yet.

“Hello!” she called out. “How are you?” The stiff breeze off the water caught her words and tossed them back. “Hello!” she tried again.

This time the figure apparently heard her, turning to face her. She recognized who it was and smiled, feeling surprisingly relieved. “Hey, how are you today? Come up here for a little fresh air?”

The other shook their head, not speaking. Puzzled by the lack of response, Sarah stepped closer, asking, “Is everything okay? Are you all right?” She studied the figure before her, noticing how their clothing seemed to be...shifting, rearranging itself before her eyes. She blinked. It had to be a trick of the sun and the wind.

While the face she was looking at was familiar, something dark seemed to pass over it, altering the planes, changing the features from ordinary to alien. A shiver of fear passed through Sarah, and her eyes and brain struggled to make the visage before her resume its normal appearance.

As the figure became distorted before her, so now the landscape itself seemed altered to Sarah—the green grass looked sere and blighted, the bright beach blackened as if painted with ash, the rolling waves now oily with yellow, sickly foam. Something seemed to be swimming in that curling surf, something unwholesome and with many—too many—limbs. Sarah tore her eyes away, fighting a sudden nausea.

“What's going on? I think—I'm not feeling well, I'd better go home. Goodbye,” she stammered hurriedly, turning from the one she'd thought was a friend, but now—now she didn't know who they were.

Or what.

Trotting away as quickly as she dared, Sarah tried to focus on the path before her. Her head swam and her eyes watered; she dashed at them with one hand, extending the other to help keep her balance as she hurried. “Home, yes, and tea. Some nice tea,” she babbled quietly to herself. “Everything's fine. Fine. Just fine.”

Her foot landed on a rock that she swore hadn't been there a second before. Her ankle turned, and a sharp jolt of pain made her cry out. Her balance shifted, her body swerved, twisted, and then she was falling...

A spray of sand heralded her impact on the pebbled beach, while the soft collision of flesh against earth was almost soundless. Her limbs flew up and back down again as her body's motion ceased, and her head ricocheted against a jagged piece of black igneous rock, so prevalent on the Maine beaches. 

Sarah Tisner came to rest, limbs flung wide in a false grace against the rocks, a rich ruddy pool slowly blooming in the sand beneath her skull.

“Maine?” Dean paused for a moment to consider. “I could go for a lobster roll.”

Sam sighed. “Trust you to lead with your stomach.”

Dean patted the area in question. “It's how an army travels, Sammy.” He burped. “So, what's happening in Maine? Rock lobsters?” He snickered at his own joke.

“Haunted lighthouse.” Sam pushed a book over to his brother and tapped on the picture. “A couple of deaths.” He scrolled on his laptop. “Sarah Tisner, thirty-two, schoolteacher, died in a fall off a cliff path. And Earl Sherwood, fifty-three, handyman and carpenter, walked out into the ocean and drowned.”

Dean hummed as he looked over the lighthouse article. “Well, this is fascinating stuff, Sam, but what makes two sad but ordinary deaths into a case for us?”

“The lighthouse is reportedly haunted. It's on a small island off Maine's northern coast and was built in 1858. It's still operational. With its age and the isolation, haunting rumors have floated around for years, but nothing's ever been substantiated.” He shut the laptop. “If it is haunted, then it's likely we have a case. Besides, we don't have anything else going on at the moment.”

“There is that. And there is the whole lobster roll issue.” Dean slapped the table and stood up. “Good enough for me! I'll throw a few things together and gas Baby up.”

Of all the areas of the United States they'd traveled through, New England was possibly the least well-known one to the Winchesters. Once they'd gotten through the Midwest (flat as pancake, Sam napped through most of it), they stopped overnight at the Hay Bin Inn. The next day as they drove into New England itself, Sam enjoyed observing the scenic small towns, then the more forested areas as they continued north. Crossing the line into Maine, they took US 1 North, following its twists and curves along the coastline to Tremont, the town where the Bass Harbor lighthouse was located.

Dean stopped at a little gas station and convenience store, where they got water bottles and snacks, changing into their fed suits in the bathroom. On their last leg of the drive, Sam reviewed again what they knew of the case, which admittedly was not a lot.

The Tremont police station looked like any other small town station they'd ever visited—a small, utilitarian brick building with a flat roof, big glass doors and windows, flagpoles with the state and national flags drooping, and a couple of black-and-white SUVs in the parking lot. A big gray sign in the front said in gold letters, “Tremont Police Department. Keeping YOU safe!” Sam and Dean looked it over as they walked across the gravel lot, comparing it to the thousand other police stations they'd seen.

The lobby walls were institutional pale green with white trim, its linoleum dark brown flecked with green and orange. Brown wooden chairs with beige cushioning sat around a battered coffee table strewn with out-of-date golfing and fishing magazines. The Winchesters walked up to the counter, all laminate and faux granite, behind which sat three desks, a couple of battered filing cabinets, and a table with a coffeemaker and coffee supplies. A mini-fridge hunkered under the table. Off to the side, an open door indicated the Chief's office. 

Two of the desks were empty, but the third was occupied by a young woman in street clothes. She was busily applying lipstick, apparently using her computer monitor as a mirror. Her long blonde hair was pink at the ends, and Sam thought her cleavage was a little extreme for a police station, but Dean didn't seem to mind at all as he leaned toward her and gave her his best smile. 

“Hello, beautiful. How are you doing?”

She looked up, apparently just noticing them. “Good morning, What can I do for you?”

Dean chuckled, and Sam managed to keep his eye-rolling inside his head. “Oh, sweetheart, what can I do for _you?_ ” Dean purred, ending with a wink.

She giggled, and even Sam had to appreciate the resultant boob-wiggling that created. “I'm Yvonne, the secretary. Do you need one of the police officers?”

“Yes, we do,” Sam cut in quickly. He really didn't want to be here all morning while Dean went bird-dogging. “Is there someone we can speak with?”

“Well, the Chief is out on vacation,” Yvonne said in a somewhat more business-like tone. “But Officer Pelletier is here. Please wait a minute.”

“Thanks, Yvonne. It's Agents Daltrey and Townshend from the FBI. And may I say what a pretty shade of lipstick that is? That wine color is very complimentary to you.” Dean nodded.

“Oh, thank you! It's a custom color, I order it special online from Sephora. We don't have much in the way of malls up here.” Yvonne got up and went to the door labeled “Staff”, opening it enough to lean her head in and speak to whoever was in there. Sam watched Dean take advantage of the moment to check out Yvonne's ass in her snug skirt. Dean grunted when Sam's elbow dug into his ribs.

“Reel It in, dude. You're gonna trip on your tongue,” Sam hissed.

“Aw, Sammy, are you jealous? You know my heart belongs to you. And my balls.” Dean snickered.

“Officer Pelletier will be right out.” Yvonne returned to her desk, but instead of sitting down, she opened a drawer and removed a purse. “Excuse me.”

The staff-room door opened and a uniformed woman came out, her dark hair pulled back in a business-like ponytail. She came over to the counter, expression polite but not necessarily friendly. Before she could speak to Sam and Dean, Yvonne intercepted her.

“Nora, I'm leaving now. Remember I said Monday that I had to leave early for a trip? I'll be back after the weekend.”

The officer sighed. “Okay. Did you clear it with Chief Nelson?”

“Yes, I did. He signed off on it already, I just wanted to remind you.”

“Fine. Have a safe trip.”

Yvonne wiggled her fingers at Sam and Dean and scooted out the door. The officer sighed again and approached the counter where Sam and Dean waited.

“I'm Officer Nora Pelletier. Can I help you?”

Dean smiled at her, giving about 50% charm, Sam estimated. She seemed unaffected, face still blank. Dean sighed and said, “I'm Agent Daltrey and this is my partner, Agent Townshend. We're from the FBI, looking into the recent deaths you had here.”

She blinked. “FBI's looking into that? There's nothing to look into, Agents. We had someone slip and fall off a steep path, and a case of suicide by drowning. Pretty ordinary stuff.” She reached back to her desk and grabbed a folder. “Here's our reports.”

Sam leaned forward. “How did that suicide happen? Did the victim have a history of mental illness or disorders?”

Officer Pelletier shrugged. “Not really sure, I guess. Earl Sherwood, everyone said he was a good guy. He'd been moping around for a little while, spending a lot of time by the water, sitting and talking to himself. Quit his job. The doc said he just gave up; loaded his pockets with rocks, tied some weights on, walked on into the surf. Body washed up on the next high tide.”

She appeared unmoved by the man's demise. Dean and Sam exchanged a glance. “And what about the falling victim?” asked Dean.

Officer Pelletier shook her head. “That was real sad. Our schoolteacher, Sarah Tisner. She was walking up above the point and tumbled right down. Cracked her head like an egg on the rocks. Couple of residents walking their dog found her.”

“Was that where the suicide walked into the ocean too?” Dean leaned forward.

“Not right at, but say 500 feet away.”

“And what did the man do, the suicide victim?” asked Sam.

“He was a carpenter-handyman type. He worked on a lot of the old houses around here.” She checked her watch. “Is there anything else I can help with? I've got a lot of reports to catch up on. The Chief is away, and now so is our secretary, so I'm a little shorthanded.” She grimaced.

“Ah, paperwork. Always a treat, huh?” said Dean with a smile.

She scoffed. “Not so much. I wouldn't be so behind if my partner hadn't called out the last two days. Now I've got to do everything myself.”

Sam arched an eyebrow at Dean before asking her, “Oh, that's too bad. What's up, is he sick?”

“Sick of the ass-kicking I'm going to give him.” She frowned, the corners of her mouth turning down. “Didn't say he was sick, just he had something important to do, couldn't make it in.” She shook her head. “When I see him, he's getting an ass-kicking _and_ a piece of my mind.”

“Sucks getting the short end,” Dean agreed amiably. “Well, we're just going to take a little drive, check out the path up to the point, so on and so forth. Thanks for the scoop, Officer.”

Sam followed Dean to the door, turning back before he stepped through for a second. He gasped, grabbing Dean's arm.

Officer Pelletier's desk appeared to be covered in seaweed, long dark green fleshy filaments dripping water all over the floor. Her dark hair hung loose, the waterlogged strands trailing over her face and shoulders. She picked up a paper, oblivious to the moisture soaking through it, and Sam realized with horror that her hands were starfish, fingers splayed out and undulating unnaturally.

“Dean!”

Dean stopped. “What, Sam?” Sam tugged on his arm and indicated behind them. Dean turned to look. “Okay. What is it?”

Sam looked at the desk, piled with folders and papers, and a distinct lack of water. Pelletier, hair neatly in its ponytail, scribbled on papers with her deft _human_ hand.

“Go. I'll explain in the car,” hissed Sam, practically pushing Dean out of the door.

Over beers and sandwiches at the Sea Shanty Diner—Dean got his lobster roll, Sam stuck to grilled cheese—Sam filled his brother in on what he'd seen at the police station. Dean listened without interrupting, devouring his lunch. Wiping melted butter off his lips, he sat back and took a pull on his mug of beer.

“So what the hell does that mean? Was it a hallucination? A vision? What do you think is going on here?” He aimed a serious gaze at Sam.

“I don't know. It didn't feel like a vision. If it was a hallucination, it was the whole nine yards. I could smell the salt water, hear the water dripping on the floor.” Sam grimaced. “Her hands...made squishy noises.”

“Damn.” Dean drummed his fingers on the table. “Well, I'm not buying this whole natural deaths thing. People fall, and people drown themselves, but I'm willing to bet that the odds of those two things happening at the same place within a week like this are pretty high. I think something's going on, and when I say something, I mean one of our kind of somethings.”

Sam nodded. “Let's talk to the schoolteacher's friends and Sherwood's family. See if there's something unusual or in common between them.” He tapped the table. “Maybe we should check on Pelletier's partner as well.”

Dean nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”

Checking in at the Breakwater Motel was like checking in at any of the last hundred motels they'd stayed at. The lobby was full of warped fake wood, the carpet was ratty and faded, and touristy brochures limply filled a plastic rack. In an apparent nod to the location, sea shells adorned every picture frame. The clerk smirked at their request for two queens. Entering the room, they found it clean enough, although the towels were somewhat threadbare, the dresser leaned when Sam put his backpack on it, and the giant lobster wall art was a bilious shade of red. Sam looked at it with a little alarm.

“Okay, who's first? Schoolteacher or suicide?” Dean plopped his duffle on one bed. Even though they only slept in one bed, they liked having two—it gave them more space for equipment, or in case one of them was injured. 

Or if someone didn't want to sleep in the wet spot. Not that Sam was naming any names.

Two rounds of rock-paper-scissors later, and Sam won the vote. “Suicide it is.” He opened the folder from the set the police officer had given them, reading from the report. “Earl Sherwood. Age fifty-three. Good general health. Carpenter and electrician, had his own business. Divorced seventeen years. One son, Matthew, age twenty-six, also a carpenter.”

“Okie dokie. Let's hit it. Carpenters R Us.”

They drove to the small house that served as both home and business for the Sherwood men. As befitted a pair of carpenters, it was tidy and neat; gutters straight, the roof looked freshly reshingled, and the window trim was painted a cheery yellow against the bright blue siding. The steps were squeak-free when the Winchesters walked up them to the front door. Sam figured there was no better advertising for a carpenter than his own house.

Matthew Sherwood answered their knock at his door wearing a black armband pinned around his flannel shirt sleeve. He shook their hands glumly, ushering them in and gesturing to a couple of cushioned captain's chairs. He sat in what Sam figured must have been his father's big leather recliner, the cushions pre-formed around a different body shape than Matt Sherwood's lean frame.

“Mr. Sherwood, we're terribly sorry about your father,” Sam began in a sympathetic tone.

“Please, Matt. Mr. Sherwood was my dad.” He gave a loud sniff. Sam noted the shadows under Matt's eyes from sleeplessness, the bloodshot whites that spoke to alcohol 

“Of course. When would you say you noticed his growing unhappiness?” asked Sam.

“See, that's just it. He wasn't unhappy. He wasn't skipping down the lane, all bluebirds and daffodils, but he was okay. He liked his work. We got along good. I never saw no sign that he was gonna do something like this.” Matt's pale blue eyes filled with tears. “Why'd he go and do it?”

“We don't know, Matt. We're just trying to learn what we can about it.” Dean's voice was calm and reassuring. “Was there anything unexpected? Surprise visitors? Was he feeling ill?”

“He was in the pink. A little high cholesterol, like anyone his age. Nothing unexpected. He'd just gotten a good project. He was excited about that.” Matt sniffed again.

“What are they restoring?” asked Sam. 

“The old lighthouse. I mean, not the lighthouse itself, but the house there. The one the lighthouse keepers used to live in.” Matt ran an hand through his curly brown hair. “It's been empty forever, but the town historical society wants to fix it up, like a little museum, you know? They were talking with Dad about handling the work.”

“We heard a report that Earl quit the project a day or so before he walked into the ocean, that he seemed unhappy and was talking to himself. Did you see that?”

Matt looked mulish. “He did quit, but he never said why. I saw him mumbling about something, but when I asked, he brushed me off. The next day—well, I never got to talk to him again. It was completely unlike him. He was a real straightforward guy.”

Dean and Sam shot a glance at each other. Dean said, “Hey, man, thank you for talking to us. Appreciate it after everything you've been though.”

“No problem,” answered Matt. “You all set now? I need to lie down.”

“Sure thing,” said Sam. “You take it easy now.”

They got up and left, leaving Matt still sniffling.

“Man, that seriously sucked,” Sam said to Dean once they'd ordered beers. They'd walked to the local tavern, the Barski Brewski, a name that even Dean shook his head at. “Poor guy.”

“Yeah,” said Dean, taking a deep swallow of his Double IPA. “What about that whole restoration thing? You think that plays into this somehow?” He wiped foam off his upper lip.

“Dunno,” answered Sam, content with his brown lager. “There's the possibility of rousing old spirits during something like that, when you've got old buildings. I think we need to do some more research, talk to a few more people. And I'm still curious about Pelletier's sick partner. Let's check on him tomorrow.”

They had another round, but left early, conscious of tomorrow's tasks. Walking back to the motel, Sam reached for Dean's hand. They weren't often what they referred to as “schmoopy,” but it didn't mean affection wasn't needed at times. Sam could still see--fuck, see, hear, _and_ smell—the scene at the police station earlier, and he was definitely feeling creeped out.

It felt good to crawl into bed together, feel the other's warmth, exchange slow kisses that said “I love you”. Sometimes being slower and gentler was better than the more urgent kind of passion; this was more reassuring and grounding, rather than just about orgasms. After mutually pleasuring each other with extra tenderness, they fell asleep with Sam's head on Dean's shoulder and their legs intertwined.

It almost wasn't a surprise to Sam when he woke up with Dean clutching his shoulder, fingers digging in and face buried in his neck as he whimpered. “Dude! Wake up!” Sam stroked Dean's hair, tried to bring his chin up. “It's okay, it's just a dream. You're having a nightmare.” Sam was almost surprised that his mind was clear, free of any ghastly images. He was much more prone to nightmares than Dean.

“Fuck...Jesus...” Dean gasped, eyes fluttering open and breath still coming quickly. “It was...Jesus, it was so fucked up.”

“What was it?” asked Sam, continuing to hold his brother tightly, soothe him with hands and little kisses. 

Dean closed his eyes and shuddered. “It was all...wet and cold. Salt water flooding all the rooms...you were trying to pull out the most valuable books, get them someplace dry, but...the tide...I thought you were going to drown.”

“Shhh,” Sam gentled him. “It's okay, there's no water.”

“There will be,” said Dean sleepily.

He was snoring in moments, but Sam lay awake for the rest of the night, watching the pale light climb the walls of their room.

The next morning, Dean barely remembered waking up, much less his nightmare. Sam went ahead and brushed it off, but inside, he felt a chill. Dean's last phrase about the dream--”There will be”--stuck unpleasantly in his head. Nonetheless, they had breakfast and then went out to continue their research. Dean let Sam pick the next target, so they got the address for Officer Pelletier's partner and went to visit him.

Officer John Butler lived in an over-sized cottage with a postage-stamp yard. They knocked on the front door, but a small, spry elderly lady popped out of the house next door.

“Are you looking for John? I haven't seen him in a couple of days,” she reported briskly in a high but strong voice. Bright eyes snapped at them. “What you be wanting of him?”

“FBI, looking into the missing persons recently. Officer Pelletier gave us his name and address so we could talk with him,” said Dean authoritatively.

“Well, we might as well see what he's up to.” The elderly lady disappeared inside her door and then popped back out, a key in her hand. She unlocked Butler's door and was about to sail in when Sam caught her. 

“Let us go first, ma'am,” he said softly.

Dean went in, Sam and the old lady following. The house smelt musty, like no windows had been opened in a few days, but Sam could see Dean's shoulders sag with relief when he saw someone sitting up on the couch. They couldn't see much more than he was a husky guy, with big arms and sausage-like fingers, as a blanket covered his head, with only his face peeking out.

“Officer John Butler?”

“Yeah, who's asking? Hey, what the hell are you guys doing in my house?” A husky voice, muddy with congestion, inquired querulously.

“Your partner, Officer Pelletier, said you'd called in sick. We just came to check on you.” Dean nodded for Sam and the old lady to enter.

“Oh, well, I guess that's okay.” The man on the couch coughed with a wet, croupy sound. “Yeah, I caught some kinda bug, just waiting for it to get better.”

By this point, both Dean and Sam were in the living room and could see the sick man. Sam was taken aback. This was not just a little cold. This was...alarming. He put a hand on Dean's arm and stepped back.

Butler's face was ghastly white, with two scarlet circles burning in each cheek. His eyes were glassy, his hair lank and greasy, and his lips chapped, dry white skin scaling against an unhealthy pink. He horked deep in his throat, a guttural, rattling sound, that made Sam quickly look around for a wastebasket.

When Sam turned around, armed with the wastebasket, he saw that Butler's couch was soaked—the cushions, the arms, all of the fabric was dark with water that still seeped out, puddling on the hardwood floors. Sam didn't need to be any closer to catch the salty aroma of the puddles, or the tendrils of seaweed hanging from the cushions. As he stared in shock, Butler's scaly lips parted and a small fish slithered from them to land on the floor with a wet smack.

Shocked and horrified, Sam shot a glance at Dean, but apparently his brother saw nothing, for he continued to talk normally to Butler, asking questions about the two cases in a matter-of-fact way. The old lady likewise seemed unaware of anything amiss. 

Butler's voice grew hoarser and more congested as the conversation went on. He had nothing to offer on either case, but retreated into his blanket further and further, until his face could scarcely be seen. Sam looked incredulously at Dean, unable to believe that he couldn't see anything amiss. The floor was a couple of inches deep in seawater by now, and Sam could feel his socks becoming saturated through his thin Fed shoes. The wastebasket bobbed around like a little boat, and the incongruity of it all threatened to make Sam burst out laughing. Gritting his teeth to maintain control of mounting hysteria, Sam grabbed Dean's elbow and yanked him toward the door. The old lady patted Butler's blanket—since he was no longer visible—and went in the kitchen to make him some tea.

“Yeah, tea. That's gonna fix everything.” Sam said, rolling his eyes. “ _Dean!_ We have to go!” He practically dragged Dean out the door. The water, now halfway up Sam's shins, spilled out of the door and ran down the front steps in gurgling rivulets.

“Sam, what is the freakin' matter with you? I was trying to get information!” Dean snapped. “You need a pit stop or something? I told you not to eat that burrito yesterday.” He got into the Impala, turning the engine over as Sam joined him.

“Dean, didn't you see that? Didn't you see the water everywhere?” Sam scoffed in disbelief at what he'd witnessed. “A fucking _fish_ came out of his mouth! Something very freaky is going on here!”

Dean glanced at him. “You had to be hallucinating again. I didn't see anything.”

Sam groaned. “No, I wasn't! First of all, I _saw_ it, I _smelled_ the seawater, I _heard_ the fish land on the floor, and I _felt_ my socks getting soaking wet! If that was a hallucination, it was the most vivid one ever!” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair anxiously. “What I want to know is, how is this happening, and why doesn't anyone else but me see it?”

“Maybe it's one of those vestigial abilities you have, like a, a shining kind of thing.” Dean appeared to be taking him seriously now, and Sam sighed with some relief. “We should check for EMF, first off. Then we need to look into the possibility of a ghost, or maybe a death echo. That could manifest all kinds of weird shit.”

“Yeah, that sounds great. Let's get back to the room and I can start looking up the local history angle. Maybe you should check back with Officer Pelletier—ask what kinds of old, mysterious deaths she knows about. You can let her know we saw Butler and that he's genuinely sick.” Sam shuddered. “Whatever is going on, he definitely did not look good at all.”

Back at the Breakwater, Sam settled down with his laptop and a beer, shoes off and long legs stretched out on the bed, his back resting against the headboard. He looked calmer, which relieved Dean. Sam had his excitable moments, but he was a seasoned hunter and not prone to just losing his shit. Dean felt much more at ease about going back to the police station and leaving Sam to do research.

Walking through the big glass doors of the Tremont P.D. again, Dean scanned the room for Officer Pelletier. No one was visible, so he went up to the counter and waited a few minutes, whistling aimlessly as he looked over faded posters on various bulletin boards. Checking his watch, he saw almost ten minutes had already gone by, and he began to think about moving along, perhaps focusing his attention elsewhere. He could visit one of the schoolteacher's friends, although he did like to have Sam along for that extra boost of sympathetic listening. Sam always knew when to hold a hand and break out the puppy dog eyes.

As Dean stood there briefly debating his course of action, a telephone on one of the desks rang. Dean looked around again, and being that there was still no one in sight, he hurdled over the counter, grabbing the phone before they hung up. “Tremont P.D.” he said in an official manner, hoping the caller wouldn't ask who he was.

“Who is this?” said a stern, female voice. Dean sighed. Busted by Officer Pelletier.

“It's Agent Daltrey. I came by the station to check in with you, figured I better answer when the phone rang. Who were you expecting to answer?”

“I didn't know if Butler had come back yet. Yvonne is still out.”

Dean clicked his tongue. “We went by Butler's house, and uh...yeah, he was not in good shape at all. I wouldn't expect him back anytime soon.”

“Oh, really? Not goldbricking then?”

“Nope. There is absolutely no question that he is in fact quite ill.” Dean changed the subject. “So where are you, Officer, and why are you calling?”

Pelletier gave a big sigh. “We've got another body. Right by the lighthouse. Actually, it's just inside the old lighthouse keeper's house, right at the base of the lighthouse.”

Dean swore to himself. “Who and how?”

“Older lady, Millicent Prendle. She's the secretary for the local historical society.” Another sigh, and Dean braced himself for what was coming. “She drowned,” Officer Pelletier said flatly.

Dean shook his head. “Another drowning? Did she walk into the ocean like Sherwood?”

“No. She drowned... _inside_ the house. Found her body in a big pool of seawater.” Pelletier's voice softened. “She was a real nice lady. Everyone liked her.” Her voice quavered a little as she asked Dean, “Agent...how does someone drown inside an house like that?”

Before heading to the lighthouse keeper's house, Dean swung by the motel to pick Sam up, filling him in on Officer Pelletier's news. The lighthouse was easy to find, rising sharply from the horizon as the Impala drew near. Parking by Pelletier's police SUV, the Winchesters got out and looked around for a moment, taking in the house exterior and the coastline.

The house used to be painted white, but now was weathered with browns and rusts showing through the faded paint. It looked structurally sound, but aged, with small cracks showing and nail-heads popping out some of the boards. The porch stairs squeaked underneath Dean and Sam's feet as they ascended, and the door whined when they opened it. Dean figured the electricity was off, but the windows were large and without any curtains, so there was plenty of light. 

Sam caught his breath, and Dean shot a glance at him. His brother had been seeing some freaky stuff here in Tremont, and Dean wondered if that was happening right now. Sam's eyes were wide and he was looking all around the room, so that was probably a yes.

“Agents, thanks for coming so quickly.” Officer Pelletier's face was solemn. “This is turning into a real situation here. Three deaths like this—they gotta be related, right? I just don't understand how. Or why. Or who.”

Dean and Sam exchanged a look. “You and me both,” said Dean. “Let's see what we can figure out here.”

Sam asked, “Officer, when did you last see...”

“Millicent.”

“Right, Millicent.” Sam knelt down, studying the body. Millicent had been a tall lady, dressed in a pale yellow Oxford button-down shirt and a long floral skirt. Her hair was bundled on her head, although long strands hung out now, and she had a pair of reading glasses on a beaded lanyard around her neck. One foot had a gray clog on, but the other foot was only wearing a navy sock. “Where's her other shoe? Did she have a purse or bag?”

“I haven't looked around yet. I was—Millicent was a friend, I was--” Pelletier cleared her throat. “I'll look for them now.” She left the room hurriedly.

“This is not a good day for the officer, I'm afraid.” Dean's mouth turned down grimly at the corners. “Sammy, you seeing abby-normal things here?”

Sam shook his head. “Nothing so far. Everything looks fine. I don't see any signs of conflict—no bruising, no wounds.” He gently pressed on Millicent's chest, and a little rivulet of water cascaded from her mouth. “Looks like drowning to me. Water in her lungs.”

“ _Inside_ the house. Okay, well, clearly this is continuing the motif we've got going on. Any bright ideas, Sam?” commented Dean.

Sam stood up, brushing off his knees. “Nothing off the top of my head. Let's go back and finish checking out possibilities at the room.” He went to the door Pelletier had exited through and called out, “We're leaving now! We'll see you back at the station in a bit!”

They went out the front door, stopping when they saw someone walking up to the house. A youngish man with dreadlocks almost to his waist, dressed in faded jeans and a long-sleeved tunic with embroidery at the neck and sleeves, approached them. He had a round, smooth face with hooded eyes and a thin mouth. Extending his hand, he said, “Hello. I'm Alex. I'm with the historical society, and I also oversee the lighthouse and this building for the town.”

“Agent Daltrey,” said Dean, shaking hands. 

“Agent Townshend,” added Sam, also shaking with Alex.

“So, Agents, may I ask what brings you here? I assume it can't be poor Millicent, being that that just happened.” Alex stood with his hands on his sips, studying them.

“No, we were already here investigating the deaths of Sarah Tisner and Earl Sherwood.” Sam opened his notebook. “Did you know either of them?”

“Of course—this is a very small town, we all know each other. As it happens, both were involved in the project we were starting here. As was Millicent.”

Officer Pelletier rejoined them, nodding at Alex in greeting. “I didn't find her shoe or her bag. I called the coroner next town over to come pick her up.” She sighed tiredly. “What's next?”

“I'd like to talk with Alex some more, see what he can tell us about our victims. How about we go get a cup of coffee, and we can chat over that?” Dean looked at Sam and Alex. Sam nodded.

Alex replied, “Yes, that sounds good. I'll meet you at the Sea Shanty in a few minutes.”

Sam and Dean got in the Impala, Dean pulling around while Sam looked back at the officer and Alex, still talking behind them. “Wonder what they're conferring about?” Sam mused.

“Yeah, me too. Let's see what Alex knows about all this, plus I want to check him out. Grab the silver out of the glove box, and I have holy water in my flask.”

“You got it.”

By the time Alex joined them inside the diner, the water glass had been doctored with holy water, the utensils had been replaced with a set in silver, and Dean was toying with the salt shaker. When Alex came in, he saw them right away and joined them at their booth. He sipped some water after greeting them, then pulled out the spoon from his place setting to stir the coffee the waitress brought over. Dean gave Sam a side glance before spilling some salt on Alex's hand, apologizing for his clumsiness.

Nothing. No reaction.

The tests behind them, Sam and Dean each asked Alex some questions about his experiences and knowledge of the three victims. He only had complimentary things to say about them, lauding their skills, capability, and pleasantness. 

“So what is the project you referred to?” asked Sam. “Something to do with the lighthouse?”

“Yes, exactly. A proposal was made to restore the old house there. That is the former dwelling of the lighthouse keeper and his family, but it has been empty for many, many years. The idea was to restore it and use it for a little museum and gift shop, for people who want to come see the lighthouse. It was built in the mid-1800's, so it's quite old and has a lot of history.”

“That's a cool idea,” said Dean, by which Sam knew he meant it was anything but. “So what all did everyone do?”

“Well, Sarah was working on compiling some of the history itself, and Earl was drafting the plans for what would need to be done for the physical aspect of the renovation, rebuilding and such. Millicent handled the proposal and was coordinating with the people who gave us the grant for the work.” Alex sipped his coffee.

“And what did you do?” asked Dean.

“I liaisoned with everybody, helping and coordinating as needed, keeping everything moving forward.” He shook his head. “I don't know what will happen now, having lost these people. Not only will they be missed personally, but the whole project could fall apart.”

Sam asked, “Is there anyone who would want to derail the project? Shut it down?”

“No one I can think of. The whole town has been excited about this, looking forward to increasing our tourism as some of the other towns along the coast have done.”

Dean sighed. “Well, I have to say, we're getting nowhere fast. I'm not sure what direction to take next.”

“I don't know what to say, Agents. I wish I had something helpful to offer.” Alex pushed himself up. “I must go, I need to call the grant foundation, update them with this sad news.” He shook their hands. “I am around if there's anything else I can help with.”

Dean and Sam watched him leave, long legs eating up the distance back to the lighthouse. “I like him,” said Dean.

“Yeah, me too. But that doesn't help us for shit,” replied Sam, rubbing his forehead.

“No, no it doesn't.”

Back to the motel room, cracking books and searching the internet again for some clue, some morsel of information that would lead them to a culprit. Dean lasted for all of two hours, by which time he was ready to climb the walls. “Dude, I can't do this anymore right now. I'm going to walk along the waterline below the lighthouse. Maybe something will turn up there.”

Sam flapped a hand at him. “Go, go. No reason both of us should go crazy with this. I'm going to keep digging in local maritime history and sea legends.”

“Ugh,” grunted Dean. He changed into a t-shirt, flannel shirt, jeans, and boots before heading out the door. “Text me, Sammy, preferably something dirty.”

Sam rolled his eyes and continued flipping through web pages, following link after link. He finally sighed, stretching and rubbing his dry eyes. He got up and changed as well, ready to relax in his jeans and t-shirt. Getting a beer from the mini fridge, he sat back down, drinking a long draught on it as he opened a new search tab.

“Monsters of the Deep,” he read aloud. “Are we talking blue whales or something more like Cthulu?” Reading on, he leaned forward. “Hmmm...that's kind of interesting. But what...”

His eyes moved steadily over the screen, and his beer was pushed to the side, mostly forgotten as he became absorbed in the material before him. Sam found himself scanning paragraphs about sea-focused hallucinations, incredibly vivid apparitions involving all five senses. “Well, that sure sounds familiar,” he murmured, remembering the scenes from the Tremont police station and Earl Sherwood's house. “What brings that on?” He read the next words aloud.

“ _Iku-Turso,_ a Scandinavian sea demon, lurking in the cold waters of the Northern and Norwegian seas. Something like an octopus but with sharp, dagger-like teeth, malevolent and bloodthirsty. Lots of tentacles—okay, so more on the Cthulu end of things then,” Sam noted. “If this really is you, Mr. Turso, then the big question, is...how do we kill you?”

Dean walked along the narrow, pebbled beach, glad to be out of the stuffy motel room and away from dusty books and arcane websites. A few yards in from the water, the escarpment rose several yards, where it was then crowned by the keeper's house and the lighthouse itself. Dean tilted his head back, shading his eyes with one hand and squinting in the bright sunlight at the spire. He looked back down, shaking his head, and scanned the water. Blue-green swells rimmed with white rolled in, the baby wavelets splashing sweetly on the sand and pebbles.

“Yeah, it's beautiful all right,” Dean admitted grudgingly to himself. “No denying that.”

Broken shells and sand crunched under his boots as he walked down the length of the shingle. No one was around; beside the gentle lapping of the water, the only sounds were the occasional seagulls flying and diving. Dean could almost forget what he was really there for—looking for some discernible traces of horror and murder.

_What a life._

He texted Sam. _Nothing here so far but sunshine and waves, Sammy. Anything on your end?_

_Yeah, I found a likely candidate. A Finnish sea monster, which can manifest as human. Likes hallucinations._

Dean whistled. _Okay. Sounds like a live one. Heading back to you._

He turned around, walking back the way he'd come. Wavelets began to wash up around his feet as he walked, his boots splashing in the chilly water.

_What the hell—I thought high tide wasn't until later this afternoon._ Dean looked over at the ocean to gauge how fast the tide might be rising.

Waves were rising higher and higher as he watched, cresting in a vile, yellow-green foam. Dark shapes seemed to swim inside the waves, misshapen and bulbous, breaking apart and reforming before his eyes. Dean stepped back, only to find rills of water surging, wrapping themselves around his feet and ankles and impeding his retreat. They pulled at him, slowly drawing him out to the deeper water. Ropes of dark, flabby seaweed floated in and then wound around his ankles and shins.

“Fuck!” Dean yelled, back-pedaling as hard as he could, but making little progress. He pulled out his phone and hit the button to dial Sam. “Sam! The water's trying to pull me in! I'm right below the lighthouse!”

“Dean!” Sam yelled. “I'm coming! Hang on!”

The water was up to Dean's knees now, soaking through his jeans, making the denim heavy enough to pull at him. The higher the waves rose, the more noisome the water grew. A stench, a rich, ripe odor of decay and decomposing gases, wafted through the air, strong enough to make Dean gag.

_How the fuck you getting out of this one, Winchester?_ A wave knocked at him, hitting him square in the crotch, dousing his junk and making him gasp with the frigidity of the water. He wobbled, unsteady between the turbulent water and swirling sand; struggling to maintain his balance, a second wave took him down. Falling back on his hands, Dean spluttered, striving to keep his head above the unwholesome water, scrabbling with his feet to stand up again.

“Dean!”

Sam raced into the roiling surf, grabbing Dean's arm and hauling him upright. The water raged around them as Sam, with Dean grasping him firmly around the waist, led them out, going hand over hand up the rope Sam had knotted around the Impala's tire. They collapsed as they exited the ocean, leaning against the warm metal of the Impala's door and gasping. Dean turned to the side and vomited the little sea water he'd ingested, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Got some water bottles in the car,” Sam panted. Dean nodded gratefully.

Once their breathing had settled down somewhat, they got up and looked out at the ocean. Sparkling shades of blue and green painted the smooth-rolling waves, their whitecaps merrily appearing and disappearing. The water along the shore lapped gently over the sand, shells, and pebbles, glinting in the sun. The only scent discernible on the breeze was the briny note of sea water.

“Damn,” breathed Dean. “You weren't kidding, Sammy. We gotta get this bastard.”

Back at the motel room, Dean spent several minutes in the shower, after stripping and kicking his shoes and suit into a corner. “Burn 'em,” he said.

Sam threw his jeans onto the pile as well. While he'd been focused on rescuing Dean, he'd still noticed the unholy stench and the strange, oily texture of the water, and he knew those clothes would never be wearable again. He scooped them all into a trash bag and tied it off.

Sam poked his head in the shower. “Want me to wash your hair?”

Dean leered at him, ignoring the soapy trickles down his face. “Dude, I just survived the ocean trying to kill me. I want more than a damn hair-washing. Well, maybe wash it first, 'cause I was dunked in that disgusting water. Then...” He waggled his eyebrows.

Sam couldn't argue with that. A few more minutes and Dean would have been drawn out to the deep ocean, and they would never have found him again. That thought made Sam shiver and his heart clench. Feeling a need to celebrate his brother's survival, Sam stripped and went into the bathroom, intent on showing Dean just how glad Sam was.

Dean was a little surprised when Sam joined him in the shower. Shenanigans like daytime shower sex were usually a between-case treat. On the other hand, the ocean wasn't always trying to murder one of them, so if there was ever an excuse to fuck around, Dean figured that was it. Far be it from him to complain about his gorgeous, ripped lover giving him a spontaneous blow job. Nosirree.

Sam was already on his knees, hair darkening under the spray of the water. Soap in hand, he lathered up Dean's torso and hips, then soaped up his hands and ran then over Dean's dick and around his balls, being sure to get the inside of his thighs and up into his taint. The slippery soap, applied with steady pressure from San's deft hands, had Dean hard by rinsing time. His dick bobbed under the warm water, while Sam made sure he was soap-free and clean.

Satisfied with his work, Sam got down to business. Running his tongue up and down Dean's shaft, Sam kept one hand splayed on Dean's belly and the other cradling his balls. Sam's lips opened to invite Dean's cock in, and the heat of Sam's mouth as Dean slid inside was twice that of the shower. Dean groaned, his hips giving a little involuntary thrust that made Sam chuckle.

“Little eager there, babe?” Sam's voice was already hoarser, and his eyes sparkled as they looked up at Dean, water droplets hanging on dark eyelashes.

“Fuck, Sammy, you drive me crazy. Already feel so good.” Dean's balls tightened in Sam's palm, and he leaned back against the tile wall, pushing his groin out. “Suck me, please?” How could he feel so strung out already, his body drawing tight and his breathing short? How did Sam freaking do this to him every time?

“Shh, stop thinking so loud,” Sam softly admonished. “Let me make you feel good.”

And goddamn he did, using his hot, wet mouth, soft lips, skilled hands to draw Dean up that hill, pulse and blood pounding, skin electrifying, cock rock-hard and jerking blindly, balls ready to fucking crawl up inside Dean and blast themselves out. Dean had one hand braced on the wall and the other buried in Sam's hair, silky wet strands winding around his fingers. Thighs trembling, belly quivering, Dean tried to watch it happen, but his eyes slammed shut. Stars and sparks sprayed across the darkness under his lids as Sam brought Dean to climax, fingers pressing just so, tongue lapping at the sensitive tip as if to coax out the rush of come. Dean came and came, wailing as his body arched in a magnificent spasm and he emptied himself into the water raining down.

Pleased with the blissful state he'd left Dean in, Sam exited the bathroom and dressed. It was several more minutes before Dean emerged, skin pink, hair spiky, a towel around his waist and a goofy grin on his face. He plopped onto the bed. “Okay, I can deal now. What is this son of a bitch, Sammy? And how are we gonna end him?”

Sam leaned back from the laptop. “I think it's a sea demon from around Finland. It's called Iku-Turso. My guess is it came here a long, long time ago, like when the Vikings and a lot of other long-boat sailors from the North were exploring along the coast here. It must have attached itself to a boat, like a hitchhiker.”

“A sea demon? Shit. Any idea how or why he started with the body fest?” Dean dressed quickly in clean clothes.

Sam stared blankly out the window, thinking out loud. “Let's say he traveled here on a sailing ship. Where would he go? Where's he been all this time? He lives in the ocean.” He tapped a finger against his mouth. “So he's right here, yeah? Hanging around in the sea. He can probably lure people into the water. He can possible even manifest somehow to come out of the water.”

Dean sat on a chair, elbows resting on his knees as he listened to his brother before offering his own theories. “Okay, he's in the water. How's he get on land? If he just appeared on the beach, everyone would see him. It's gotta be something more hidden, something that lets him sneak up on people.”

Sam slapped the table as he bolted upright. “Caves. A cave. I bet you anything there's some caves along the shoreline here, and he can use that as a lair. Maybe he can crawl up the rock, or else swim around to the other side. Maybe a tunnel to topside.”

Dean stood up and clapped Sam on the shoulder. “Awesome work! Let's go spelunking!”

Before investigating the cliffs, Dean stated that he required food, and Sam said they needed to work out a plan. They were both ravenous after the struggle in the ocean, and the life-affirming sex afterward. Sam pointed out that they were dealing with a clearly powerful beast, and there was little to be gained by rushing in unprepared. They decided to return to the Sea Shanty and take care of both needs.

They immediately ordered fresh hot coffee, sipping it gratefully as they ordered and waited for their meals.

Dean noted their waitress's name-tag. “Hey, Rhonda, what a pretty name. I knew a Rhonda once.” He smiled and winked. Sam uttered a strangled laugh he turned into a cough. “Rhonda, are you from around here?”

“Born and bred,” Rhonda replied. “Something I can help you with?”

Sam asked, “We were wondering if there were any caves around here. Sometimes these rocky coastal areas have caves that the ocean has carved into them. They can be really interesting.”

“Why sure, there's some old caves on the other side of the point, as I remember. The south side is the shingle, but the north side is more like a cliff. It's sheer rock all the way down to the water.” Rhonda shook her head. “You gotta be really careful. There's some ledges here and there, but otherwise the rock face goes right into the ocean. Let me check with the kitchen, your food oughta be ready now.” She went back behind the counter.

“Damn.” Dean sat back and rubbed the back of his neck. “How are we going to get down there? Maybe we can rappel?”

Sam scoffed. “I'm up for an adventure as much as the next guy, but we don't want to break a leg sliding down wet rock face. Plus there's no place to get a footing to get into the cave, if we find it.”

Rhonda returned with their food--beef stew for Dean and chicken pot pie for Sam. They had both wanted something hot and hearty to warm up them up after their dunking in the chilly ocean waters.

“You want to explore the rock face?” Rhonda asked, setting out their bowls along with a basket of hot rolls. “It's much steeper than the beach side. You'd be best off with a boat, sail from the shingle right around the point. Easy as pie.”

As she left their table, Sam and Dean exchanged a glance. Sam drew a little sketch of the point, noting the house and lighthouse with X's, the ocean with little waves, and the north side inside a big circle. “Here's where we need to go find our cave.”

“Now we just need a boat,” said Dean, scooping up juicy beef chunks and big cubes of potato from his stew. “Damn, this is delicious!”

They were silent except for moans of pleasure as they ate, the tasty, wholesome food restoring them. When Rhonda came to clear their dishes, Dean ordered a slice of Maine blueberry pie with more coffee. 

“Let's ask Rhonda if there's any boat rentals around,” suggested Sam. “If you can still talk after you finish that pie, that is.”

“You talk,” mumbled Dean, gesturing at Sam with his fork, a purplish smear of pie filling at the corner of his mouth. “I eat.”

Rhonda came back with their check. “Anything else I can get for you?”

“Yeah, actually, we have a question. Where could we rent a boat around here?” Sam asked.

“Don't know about just renting a boat—being that we got open ocean here, it can be tricky out on the water if you don't know what you're doing. Rip tides and deep drop-offs and all that. You need to get somewhere, I can check with my sister's boy, Neil, if you like. He sometimes gets people around on his dinghy. Been boating around here all his life.”

“That would be great, if you're sure you don't mind?” Sam raised an eyebrow at Dean, who was sitting back and looked ready to doze off. “Hey, you there in the food coma!”

“Yeah, sounds super.” Dean burped. “Jesus, that pie was fantastic!”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Excuse him, please, he was raised in a barn.”

Rhonda laughed. “I've got three boys myself, I know how it goes. Where should I have Neil look you up?”

The Winchesters exchanged a glance. “Just ask him to give us a call. Here's my number.” Dean scribbled his phone number on a napkin and gave it to Rhonda.

“Okay, I'll pass this right on to him!”

They left the diner, walking back to the motel and discussing their plan. Sam got rather impatient with Dean, who could not get past the word “dinghy”.

“It's just a name for a fucking boat!” snapped Sam.

“It's a boat with a funny name! A funny name that sounds totally dirty!” Dean laughed. “Admit it, Sammy—sounds like you're talking about dicks! Wasn't there some old song about some guy's dinghy?”

“Oh dear Lord,” Sam muttered, rolling his eyes.

When they got to their room, Dean settled down. They started by taking stock of what they'd need. Rope, flashlights, shotguns with salt rounds all went into a duffle. Sam tucked a flask of holy water in his jacket as well as the demon-killing knife. Dean slid a couple of machetes into the bag, and both men checked their handguns, making sure plenty of ammo was also stashed.

“I feel like we need something more powerful. Who knows how big this son of a bitch is? We don't really know what its weakness is.” Dean walked around the room, rubbing his neck as he looked around it.

“Hey, we have that iron poker in the trunk. That's got some heft to it.” Sam snapped his fingers. “I know. Iron is already a potent weapon--let's soak it in holy water, and coat it in salt. That'll enhance its intrinsic protections.”

Dean sat down, thinking. “Okay, so no problem on the holy water, we've got rosaries. It already is iron, so that's a plus. How are we going to manage the salt?”

“Glue. We can get some Elmer's glue, mix it up with salt and coat it.”

“Good thought, Sam, but let's go a little further. The glue might dissolve in salt water, and we could be screwed.” Dean snapped his fingers. “How about paint? We mix salt into some paint and paint it on, like Bobby did with the panic room.

“Perfect! We have some left in the trunk from painting sigils.”

“Okay, let's get ready while we wait for Neil's call.”

Dean ran a couple of inches in the tub, blessed it, and let the poker soak while he mixed up the salted paint. Sam mused, “We still have to figure out how it's manifesting. I think if people were seeing some grotesque sea demon, we'd have heard about it way before now. It's got to be appearing as something or someone ordinary enough that it isn't drawing comment.” He sat down at the table, checking again through his browser tabs. “Maybe we'll find something in the caves, something that will give us a clue. Like a shifter skin or a selkie fur, something like that.” 

When the phone buzzed, Sam flipped it open. “Agent Townshend.”

The tinny voice said, “Hi, Agent Townshend, Neil Farragher here. My Aunt Rhonda mentioned you were interested in hiring my boat? She said that you wanted to go around the point looking for caves. I'm not working today, so I'm at your disposal all afternoon.”

“Awesome! How about we meet you down on the shingle, right near the point? We can head right down.”

“That sounds fine. Say about twenty minutes?”

“Excellent. See you there!”

Dean walked out of the bathroom with the salt-painted poker, just as Sam clicked his phone off. He said, “That was Neil. He's going to meet us in twenty minutes. You ready to go?”

“I sure am. Hi ho, hi ho, a-spelunking we will go!” Dean winked, laughing at Sam's groan.

Sam saw Neil standing down at the end of the shingle, waiting for them. He held a rope attached to a small boat, one end of which rested on the pebbly sand. Sam couldn't help wondering if they would all fit, as it really didn't look very large.

“Agents Daltrey and Townshend?” Neil called out.

“Hey, you must be Neil,” Dean replied, reaching to shake his hand. “Please, call me Dean, and my partner there is Sam. Good to meet you. Thanks for helping us out here.”

“No problem. I'm happy to help the investigation. It's been a terrible time here.” Neil was shorter than the Winchesters, but sturdily built, with a deep chest and thick legs. His brown curly hair ruffled in the breeze, and his clear blue eyes reflected the smile on his face. Sam felt sure that they were in competent hands. 

“Okay, now just grip the sides and jump on in; I'll push it out a bit, catch the water,” Neil coached them. “Don't worry, she's bigger than she looks. I've carried up to six in her.”

First Dean, then Sam followed Neil's instructions. Sam clutched the sides as the boat rocked when Neil joined them. Even Dean seemed to be looking side-eyed, but Sam remembered how Dean had just battled the ocean the other day, and he patted his brother's knee in sympathy, instead of teasing him.

“Okay, so where we headed? Around the point, is it?” Neil started the motor up, deftly steering the skiff towards the point.

“Yes—we're looking for caves in the rock face. We suspect that might be where the killer is hiding out.” Dean's jaw was set grimly. “I want to catch this bastard before he gets someone else.”

“I thought Miss Tisner's death was an accident, and old man Sherwood was a suicide,” said Neil, his voice puzzled. He adjusted the boat's course to the left a bit, preparing to angle around the point.

“No, that's just how they were staged,” answered Sam. “The same person was behind them all.”

“Well, shit.” Neil kept bearing left, and Sam saw the rock face was just coming into view as they turned around the point.

After the prettiness of the shingle and the picturesque scenario of the lighthouse, the rock face was startlingly severe, albeit with its own rugged kind of beauty. Long slabs of reddish rock sloped down to disappear in the ocean's surging waters, unbroken outside of long ridges and furrows that ran from top to bottom. Mottled with dark browns and grays, the rock was shadowed with black lines. At the feet of the wall, the ocean smote the rock with curling waves, dark water smashing itself to withdraw and reform again and again. It was an unforgiving place, but majestic to see.

“Shit!” exclaimed Dean. “You were right, Sam, no rappelling here. One slip and we'd be drowned or broken.”

“Oh yeah, no one ever tries that here. Look how far up the rock gets wet—you'd be soaked and freezing in no time,” agreed Neil affably. 

They were slowly chugging along the rock face now, and Sam scoured the wall, trying to catch a glimpse of any openings. He glanced at Dean and saw him doing the same. Neil was looking at the wall, but also of course keeping the boat on an even keel.

Sam bit his lip, looking back to make sure they hadn't missed anything. He shouted, grabbing Dean's arm.

“There! Go back! I saw something!”

Neil killed the motor and picked up an oar, gently rowing the skiff back. Sure enough, after just a few feet, they all saw the fat black line that, as they drew near, resolved into the narrow mouth of a cave. Approached from the point, it was camouflaged by a ridge of rock, but it became visible when viewed from the other direction.

Neil rowed them over to it. It was only a foot, foot and a half up from the water. Neil lifted up a small anchor and threw it over, while Dean held onto the lip of the cave and prepared to jump in. He jumped, then turned and reached a hand out to Sam, then to Neil.

The mouth of the cave was not large, but they walked a couple of yards into it and found that the walls fell away, more than doubling the space. They were able to walk out into a large open area, the ceiling higher than they were tall. Immediately it was ascertainable that something had been here; bones lay around in piles and were strewn along the rock floor, along with small heaps of seaweed, too large to have simply washed in, mixed with oddments like netting and bits of wood.

“I'd say this floods at high tide,” said Neil. “If the lip is so close to water right now, it's easily a couple of feet under then. What all are you expecting to find in here?” He looked at them with curiosity.

Sam darted a look at Dean before taking a deep breath and facing Neil. “We think it's some kind of sea monster or demon. I know it sounds crazy, but such things exist, and we hunt them. We think that's what killed everyone here so far—the teacher, Sherwood, and Ms. Prendle. We need to stop it.”

“You aren't necessarily on board for that,” added Dean. “You want to wait in the skiff or right here, we're not going to think any less of you. This is what we do. We don't usually even tell people about shit like this, but there's no avoiding it sometimes. Like now.”

Neil shook his head. “Living next to the ocean like this, you grow up hearing all kinds of tales and stories. Sailors are a superstitious lot. It's easy to think it's all old men's dreams, but any good sailor hedges their bets, doesn't trust that it's all hearsay. I dunno what you're hunting, but I'm guessing...it ain't human.”

Sam breathed a sigh of relief. “No, it isn't. I have an extra--”

Neil winked and pulled out a Glock 17 from one capacious jacket pocket and a flare gun from the other. “I got enough to start with.”

Dean nodded, slapping Neil heartily on the shoulder. “Awesome! Good man.”

They all fanned out and started examining the cavern. Sam ran his hands over the rock walls while Dean paced around the entire area. A hiss from Dean, and Sam turned to see his brother gesturing to what must be a continuation of the cave into a tunnel. Neil poked into the piles of debris and seaweed, using a bigger branch to dig around with.

“Agents?” Both Sam and Dean turned at Neil's hail. Neil held up his branch, at the end of which dangled a gray clog.

“Shit! That's Millicent's missing shoe.” Dean shook his head. “Well, we're on the right track then.”

Sam nodded. “I don't think her shoe would have just washed up in here from the lighthouse keeper's house.”

Neil carefully put the shoe down to one side, his face sad. Sam could see the whole thing had taken on a new gravity for him. He walked over and patted Neil on the back.

“I know it's rough at first. That was a good find though, it gave us information we needed.”

Neil nodded and sighed. “Just...it feels like a story on TV at first, you know? But...it's not.”

Returning to the wall he'd been examining, Sam clicked his flashlight on, wanting to see more clearly in the twilight of the cave. As it illuminated the wall, Sam saw crude drawings on it--rough figures painted in some dark substance. He stepped closer to examine them; he could tell there were fish, unsurprisingly, and some stick-like figures, and...something very large in relation to the stick figures, something with a lot of wriggly strings coming off of it. Sam squinted at it. Were those hairs? Or maybe...tentacles?

“Hey, Dean,” Sam called over. “Take a look at these, they've got to be--”

A clattering noise echoed from the back of the cave, and the men whirled as one to face what was coming. Sam braced himself, his shotgun out and ready.

“My goodness, what is going on here? What are you all doing in this dark, dank space?”

Alex emerged from the darkness, wearing what looked like the same jeans and tunic from their earlier meeting. “Agents, greetings. Hello, Neil. What's all this?”

Sam saw Neil relax a little at the sight of someone he knew. While Sam had been geared up to see a monster and not the quasi-hippie from the historical society, nonetheless he wasn't taking anything for granted quite yet, and he remained on alert, nerves tight and muscles poised for action. “Alex, what are _you_ doing here? We're investigating the local murders.”

Alex frowned. “What murders? Do you mean the recent deaths? My understanding is there was a suicide and a tragic accident.” He looked guilelessly between Sam and Dean.

Dean said, “It's not clear exactly what happened, that's why we're investigating.” He took a step toward Alex. “Is there anything new you've thought of? Do you have something to tell us?” He advanced closer. “Why are _you_ down here, Alex?”

“And how did you get here?” Sam stepped forward too.

Alex put up his hands in placation. “Are you then unaware of the tunnel that runs up behind me? The egress is a slab of stone that's part of the lighthouse floor. It probably was used by smugglers and such, back when this coast was wild and uncivilized, perhaps going back to the earliest explorers.” He dropped his hands. “I apologize if I startled you. I like to come down here and...think. It's a secret, quiet place, and I really don't like having others in here.”

“Hey, Alex, have you seen these indigenous wall paintings before? Do you know what they mean?” Sam couldn't help feeling what was painted on the rock tied into the deaths somehow. He looked at them again, only...the figures were moving now, running over the rough rock surface. Yeah, those hairy things had to be tentacles, judging by the way they writhed, grabbing all the stick figures and waving them in the air. “Dean, the paintings are moving!”

“Sam! Not the time right now!” Dean yelled as he hit the cave wall next to the paintings with a resounding thump. Sam whirled around and saw Alex grappling with Neil, peppering him with blows while forcing him off balance, dreadlocks swinging. Neil outweighed Alex, but Alex was quick and clearly an experienced fighter, landing quick, sharp strikes on Neil's face and throat, retreating before Neil could react.

Dean launched himself off the wall, angling in at Alex and attempting to sweep his legs to bring him down. Alex went down hard on the rock floor; Sam dove at him, working to pin Alex's shoulders with one arm and hit him in the face with the other. Somehow Alex slipped Sam's grip and was on his feet again, gliding quickly around the cave. Sam looked at his hand and saw it was coated in a disgusting slime, and he assumed he'd picked it up from the cave as he wiped it off on his shirt. The slime attached itself to his shirt all right, but also began to envelope Sam's hand, and only hasty shaking and wiping dislodged the cold, viscous glop.

Neil grabbed Alex from behind, wrapping his arms around the slender man, but got an elbow slammed back into his face. It drove him backward into the wall, and Sam could just make out the dark splotches of blood on Neil's face and his plaid shirt. Neil sagged, leaning against the wall for a moment, stunned and breathless.

Dean sailed in, driving the heel of his hand into Alex's nose and his other fist into Alex's stomach. Despite Dean's strong attack on him, Alex seemed unaffected--his head snapped back for a second before he launched a couple of kicks to Dean's ribs, drawing a pained grunt from Dean. Sam went in at a sharp angle to Dean, trying to confuse and distract Alex, raining punches on his head and into his belly. Alex backhanded him easily in the face, momentarily blinding Sam with the pain and sending him reeling.

Sam ran his sleeve over his face, trying to clear the blood. It took a second to wipe his eyes, and when he could see again, both Dean and Neil were standing still, staring at Alex in horror. Sam looked over at Alex and felt a chill run throughout his blood.

Alex's dreadlocks, those thick, tight spirals of hair that went down to his waist, were twisting angrily in the air around his head. Sam's first thought was that they were snakes, like Medusa, but as he looked harder at them, he realized they had little flattish suction cups on one side.

They weren't snakes—they were tentacles.

“Fuck,” whispered Dean. “What the ever-loving fuck?”

Neil's blue eyes were round and his ruddy face pale. “Sam? Dean? What the hell is that?”

Alex looked at them with obvious disdain in his face. His voice was deep and wet, like his chest was filled with fluid. “I am Iku-Turso.”

“It was a glamour,” breathed Sam. “So that we didn't see them in their true form.”

“Yes,” answered Alex, his voice thickening even more. His even tan coloring faded into green, not like the clear hue of a fresh plant, but the darker, mottled green of dead leaves and decaying fish. “You speak the truth.” Behind him, the cave wall rippled and again the paintings moved, chasing and killing each other with stick-spears. The already-dim light took on a green cast, almost like it was reflecting Iku-Turso itself, and the air grew heavy and rank.

Alex still had human limbs, but they thickened and lengthened as his face bulged, his nose disappearing and his mouth framed by thick, blubbery lips. The green tint in his skin intensified and darkened, with paler purplish patches on his belly. His body lengthened and swelled, the torso distending into a broad, muscular mass, while a softer belly ripped open the waistband of his jeans. Sam had a semi-hysterical thought of the Hulk, on the rare Saturday mornings when he'd been able to watch cartoons; the Hulk (“You wouldn't like me when I'm angry!”) swelling up, chest and belly bloating, clothes shredding as his alternate nature emerged.

It was just like that now; the rather slight form of Alex quickly disappeared, swallowed up by the massive green form before them. The tentacles waved madly around his head, with the rest of his face lost in a mass of green blubbery flesh. Several smaller tentacles sprouted from the middle of his face, like skinny worms. Only his eyes were still distinct, shiny black ovals set in folds of glistening wet green skin. Slime dripped from Iku-Turso's limbs, and puddles of dank sea-water started forming where it stood. The smell was unmistakably of brine and decomposition. Sam understood about the slime on his hand earlier, and had to swallow hard not to gag. Dean was looking rather greenish himself--he could handle blood just fine, but not other noisome fluids. It was largely why witches skeeved him out so much.

Iku-Turso uttered a raspy roar, a guttural sound that resonated as though his throat was full of snot. Dean did gag at that, but when Iku-Turso moved forward, Dean was ready to block and parry its thick arm. The creature kept up a low-level growling-slurping noise as it attacked both Dean and Sam, pummeling them with both limbs and tentacles. They were hard put to avoid serious injury, but Sam could tell already he was going to have some major bruising from the heavy rubbery thwacks hammering on his skin.

Neil retreated to one side of the cave, pale and bug-eyed, and Sam couldn't blame him. For all of Neil's earlier courage, he had not been prepared to face a nightmare like this. None of them had. Sam tried to shout something encouraging to Neil, but had his hands too full with wiggling tentacles trying to grab him. The cave walls continued their disturbing rippling, disorienting Sam and making him feel vaguely seasick. The piles of bones were shifting restlessly, and Sam's nausea was not helped by seeing rotted flesh and skin appearing and disappearing on them. He hoped they weren't going to actually reanimate.

Iku-Turso was still bashing on Dean, so Sam reached into his jacket and grabbed his holy water flask, throwing the water on the creature. It couldn't be seen amid the copious moisture Iku-Turso produced, but Sam noted how the monster appeared to flinch, and a couple of tentacles rubbed the skin where the holy water had landed. Those spots blossomed into a bruised purple that rapidly darkened into eggplant, so Sam figured Iku-Turso was sensitive to it. He threw more onto the creature, emptying the flask and trying to get the holy water right into its face while Dean fought with his fists and feet.

Iku-Turso turned on Sam, knocking the now-empty flask away with one deft tentacle and sweeping Dean aside with a larger tentacle. Sam drew the demon-killing knife and stabbed Iku-Turso square in the belly. The knife sank in easily, the tissue feeling soft and rotten around the keenly sharp blade. Cold, thick ichor sluggishly oozed from the wound, black against the green. Sam stabbed again and again, aiming for the face and neck, but the many tentacles kept blocking him. Nonetheless the knife slashed into Iku-Turso's body two or three more times, leaving long gashes that released more of the fetid ichor.

Dean was side-by-side with Sam now, and they fought together, but Sam could tell that it was just a matter of time before Iku-Turso won. Its massive bulk and versatile tentacles were over-powering the Winchesters, slowly but surely. 

“Dean!” Sam grunted, slicing at any tentacles that were near him. Two or three of the smaller ones dropped to the floor of the cave, with a great roar of pain from Iku-Turso, but one of the mighty ones smacked Sam in the face, leaving him sightless and reeling for a moment.

“Yeah, I know! I gotta get over there!” Dean jerked his head to one side while his own knife stabbed and slashed at Iku-Turso. “I just can't get away, it keeps pulling me back in!”

“Down! Eyes!” yelled a voice, and both men immediately dropped and shielded their eyes. Even around the edge of his hands, Sam could see a light blazing. Iku-Turso bellowed and Sam felt it step back. He looked up and saw the creature pawing at its shoulder, where a flare was lodged in, burning brightly, the orange and yellow fire vibrant against the shiny green skin.

Dean darted away—Sam saw him grabbing the abandoned duffle, but Iku-Turso demanded all of Sam's attention. Sam could never have dreamed how much confusion tentacles brought to a hand-to-hand battle; it took all of his skill and speed to avoid serious damage while still attempting to damage his opponent. The tentacles writhed and feinted, striking and holding on, pinioning Sam's arms and smacking him painfully over and over.

“Right!” yelled Dean, and without hesitation Sam danced right. He felt more than saw Dean come in from his left, the poker jutting out from Dean's fist. Dean yelled, a battle-cry that echoed off the cave's rock walls, and attacked. Long, black, and lethal, the iron poker pierced Ike-Turso's chest and drove all the way in, until only the handle stuck out.

The bellows that the beast had given earlier were nothing compared to the guttural shriek of pain and anger it uttered now. It fell back a step or two, colliding into the wall behind it, as a river of black ichor gushed out around the poker, spilling down the beast's front and pooling thickly on the cave's floor. The tentacles writhed furiously, the thick arms batting at the poker's handle, but to no avail. Iku-Turso gasped and sputtered, sliding down the wall and collapsing as its legs gave way. The tentacles slowed, flopping down limply; the creature's feet stuttered into a pool of its own ichor, causing sluggish ripples in the shiny black fluid.

Sam realized he was clutching Dean's shoulder as they both watched, eyes riveted at the demise of Iku-Turso. The tentacles gave their last twists and wriggles until they all hung over Iku-Turso's face, flaccid, their skin purpling. Dean carefully advanced to check that the creature was as dead as it seemed. Sam took a step forward also, grimacing when he noticed that he was stepping in the pool of black ichor. Already congealing, it radiated a strong foul odor, something like freshly killed skunk mixed with week-old corpse. He fought back a gag, retreating hastily to where Neil knelt.

“You okay?” Sam asked Neil, feeling somewhat ridiculousness about the query. Of course Neil wasn't okay. Who would be, after experiencing this? Except the Winchesters, of course. Although Sam wasn't gonna lie, even with all of his experience, he was pretty freaked himself.

“Uh, yeah, I guess.” Neil rubbed a hand over his face. “Jesus, I never—what the holy hell was that?”

“Something from the deep,” Sam answered. “We think it hitched over from the North or Norwegian Sea, on a Viking or Norse boat. It's called Iku-Turso.”

Dean joined them. “Well, it's not just merely dead, it's really most sincerely dead.” He snickered while Sam rolled his eyes. “Seriously, it's a goner. I vote we burn it.” He clapped Neil on the back. “Dude, that was fantastic work with the flare gun. You saved our bacon. Thanks.”

“Burning works for me.” Sam pulled out a small tin of salt and went over to toss it over Iku-Turso's discolored remains. He paused for a moment. “Hey, Dean?”

“Yeah?” Dean straightened up from collecting bones.

“You know how we made sure to coat the iron in salted paint?”

“Yes, Sam, I was there.”

Sam snickered. “Iku here is a sea monster. It lives in the sea.” Dean stared at Sam while Neil started to laugh. “The sea that's full of...salt water.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Son of a bitch!” He laughed. “Well, better safe than sorry, right?”

Neil pulled the flare gun out of his pocket again with a grin. “Hey guys, I have one more flare, if you need to start the fire.”

Dean laughed. “Hey! Good man!” He and Neil exchanged a high five.

They piled all the old bones around Iku-Turso, spreading the dried seaweed over everything to help with the fire, as well as to lay all the dead to rest. The salt was scattered over the heap before Neil fired the flare into it, and they stood for a moment to watch the flames spread, licking over Iku-Turso and the seaweed-bedecked bones.

Freshly showered and back in their Fed suits, Sam and Dean Winchester walked into the Tremont police station. Dean immediately felt that the atmosphere was different. The previous heaviness in the air was dissipated, and even the sunlight seemed a more wholesome yellow as it streamed in through the windows. Dean thought it must be that Iku-Turso's lingering presence was completely gone.

Yvonne was sitting at one desk, talking on the phone and taking notes (or more likely doodling on a note pad, Dean thought) and a tall, burly man stood at the coffee table fixing a cup. When he turned around to greet them, Dean saw by his name badge that he was the Chief. 

“Can I help you?” the Chief asked, approaching them. Yvonne hung up the phone and looked over at them curiously, giving a little wave of greeting.

“Agent Daltrey, Agent Townshend, FBI. We've been working with Officer Pelletier. Is she in?” Dean shook the Chief's hand, as did Sam.

“Yes, she's--”

“Right here.” Officer Pelletier came out of a doorway and joined them at the counter. “I can finish up with them, Chief. I'll have the reports on your desk this afternoon for you to catch up on.”

“Sure thing, Nora. Gentlemen.” the Chief nodded at the Winchesters and went into his office.

“Here,” said Pelletier, and she slid them down to the far end of the counter. “Agents? What do you have to tell me today?” She looked anxiously between them.

“It's over. Everything is taken care of.” Dean tapped the counter. 

“There won't be any more deaths, not like that, I mean.” Sam cleared his throat. “No more...odd occurrences.”

“Have you talked to your partner? Do you know how he's doing?” asked Dean. He and Sam felt fairly sure that Butler would return to health now, with Iku-Turso's influence gone, but they wanted to check.

“Oh! Yeah, he's feeling a lot better, thinks he'll be back in a couple of more days.” She smiled. “It's a relief having the Chief and Yvonne back too. I felt like a one-armed plate spinner there for a while.”

“Well, you did a fantastic job.” Sam smiled at her. 

“Thank you. And thanks for handling this whole weird business—I really wasn't sure what the heck was going on. I'm still not sure what it was, but if you tell me it's over, I'll go with that. It was pretty darn bizarre.” She shook her head and sighed.

“No problem, that's what we're here for.” Sam looked at Dean. “Agent?”

Dean nodded. “And now we'll be moving on. Goodbye, Officer.” He shook her hand.

“Good-bye, Agents.”

The Winchesters started walking toward the door, when Dean turned back to the counter. “Oh, Nora?” he asked softly, beckoning her back with a crooked finger.

She came back over, leaning over the counter. “What is it, Agent?”

Dean whispered, “You might want to keep an eye on Yvonne and the Chief. It wasn't a coincidence that they were out of the office at the same time this past week.” He tapped the side of his nose.

Nora gaped at him. “What? You mean...” She looked over at Yvonne and then the Chief's office. She frowned and crossed her arms. “Dammit. Yes, Agent, I sure will.”

Sam and Dean walked out of the station and crossed the lot to the Impala. “What was that about the receptionist and the Chief?” asked Sam.

“Oh, they're having an affair. But poor Nora got stuck with the short end of the stick here, so I figured she should know,” said Dean breezily.

Sam stopped and stared at Dean. Sometimes his brother really surprised him. “How did you figure that out?”

“Because I notice the little things, Sammy. I pick up on details, and that is the mark of a great hunter.” Dean lifted his chin and preened. Sam poked him in the belly.

“Seriously!”

“Oh, okay. When we first walked into the station, we met the lovely Yvonne applying lipstick. Lipstick that she then informed us was her own custom color. So, when the Chief's collar is open, and that same shade on his neck, well...” He shrugged.

Sam laughed. “Awesome work, Detective! Poor Nora. I bet she gives them what for, for leaving her up a creek like that.”

“My thoughts exactly, Sammy!” The both got into the Impala, sighing with pleasure at sinking into her comfortable seat. “That was a job well done, Sam. Now the only question is, where to next?”

“I don't know, Dean. I don't have any leads right this minute. Where do you want to head?”

“Not sure, let's just go and see where we end up, shall we?” Dean shuddered. “Someplace far, far from the beach. I think I've had enough of the ocean for the moment anyway!”

“I'm with you there! All of a sudden a desert sounds nice! Hot and sandy. And dry.”

“Sand it is! Just keep it out of your drawers, Sammy!” Dean cackled as he threw the Impala into gear and zoomed away.


End file.
